


The Wings

by Esthree



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, Gen, M/M, as happy as it can be, but with eventually happy ending, kind of wing-AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esthree/pseuds/Esthree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is not exactly Thorin's secret. Or Dwalin's. Actually it's a secret of their folk, one that they've been keeping for centuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wings

**Author's Note:**

> The ficlet was inspired by my friend's art - http://vassa07.tumblr.com/image/123111111518
> 
> And I want to express my immense gratitude to Saetha, who has done the proof-reading as always! Thank you <3<3<3 
> 
> Also some khuzdul:
> 
> Dufburul – go on!  
> Igrib – attack!

Grandfather likes to watch him training: how he parries the blows of his opponent with practiced ease, his own attacks eager but also precise, his defense sure and effective. Sometimes Thrór himself takes the training sword and Thorin feels delight and admiration surging through him: the King under the Mountain, a renowned warrior whose great combats have long since become legends.

“Dufburul! Igrib!” 

Thorin tries to speed up, blocks mighty blows and launches into an offensive. When his audacious blow reach their aim he hears growling:“That’s it, lad!” and sees his grandfather smiling widely.

But sometimes there are shadows on the king’s face as he mutters strange things, things that Thorin doesn’t understand.

“Once you are in the battle you’ll feel the wings spreading behind you.” Thrór seizes him by his shoulder, so tightly that it hurts, staring at him keenly. “Don’t fall for this, do you hear me? It’s a curse of our kin!” His face is so close that Thorin can feel his breath on his skin. “Don’t give in to it! Ever! Or you will crave it again and again.”

Thorin nods in a daze, trying to fix his gaze on the bridge of his grandfather’s nose where there’s a deep frown between his eyebrows, in order to avoid the furious glare of his icy blue eyes.

“What sort of curse is it? Tell me.”

“No!” Thrór recoils, his eyes blazing from under his bushy eyebrows. “I won’t speak of it!” He turns around and strides towards the doors, shaking his head. “Never!”

***

“NOOO!”

The king’s head rolls over the battlefield and Thorin is dumbstruck - mad with pain and fury. He has to avenge him! Kill the pale bastard! Cut out his heart and chop it into pieces!

Thráin’s hand on his shoulder stops him from rushing into battle. His father orders – asks – him to stay, and Thorin, although reluctantly, submits to his will and doesn’t attempt to get to Azog. It is the pale orc who finds him. Thorin’s head is clear of any coherent thought. Revenge. His father. Khazad-Dum. None of it matters anymore. Horrible blows from Azog’s mace are hailing down on him, and Thorin can barely hold the oaken branch straight under the constant pressure until he is finally able to grasp his sword. The pale orc shrieks and retreats hastily like the cowardly bastard he is, hurrying to crawl back into his hole. But when Thorin finds his breath and looks around, his heart clenches: orcs are prevailing over their army everywhere. His blood is boiling hot with rage and he raises his sword.

“For the king! Du Bekar!”

Hundreds of voices join him in their ancient battle-cry, dwarves following him into the attack. Pain, anger and wild, mad rage push him forward and Thorin rushes towards their enemies. His body is filling with strength and might, becomes light and vibrant like the string of a bow. Wind blows in his face, his feet are barely touching the ground, going higher and higher with every single step they take. He sees the orcs in front of them freeze in terror.

***

“What was it, Balin? There, in Dimril-Dale.”

Thorin hugs himself staring at the flames that are dying out in the fireplace. Their supplies are packed as well as other things. He should be thinking about the journey awaiting the - the way to the Blue Mountains is long and not always safe - but his thoughts continue to wander to that day in Azanulbizar. 

“I didn’t imagine it, did I? Those wings…”

Balin can’t suppress a shudder.

“It’s a particular trait of our kin. They say that in the days of old dwarves could win even lost battles against the creatures of the Dark with their help. But for many centuries it hasn’t been used. They were afraid to… bring a curse upon them.”

Thorin raises his head.

“A curse?”

Balin sighs.

“If you happen to experience it once, you’ll be aspiring to relive it again and again.” Thorin remembers his grandfather’s words and shuts his eyes. It is true – there is a burning desire somewhere deep inside him that awakens every time when his heart fills with anger: to shoot upwards, spread his wings, fall upon those who dare to express disrespect towards his family, his kin and tear them to pieces…

“If the wings help to triumph, then why are they considered a curse?”

Balin gives him a sad smile and shakes his head.

“Having grown for the second time, they won’t disappear again.”

At first Thorin doesn’t get it. Then, when he catches the meaning of Balin’s words, he feels shivers running down his spine. If they stayed forever… a winged dwarf – laughing-stock amongst both, his own kin and strangers. A freak. A monster. 

Balin winks at him and claps him on his back.

“Our battle skill and prowess will help us no less than the wings. And we’ll always be there by your side, lad, that I promise.”

***

The king’s crown falls to the floor and bounces along the golden surface with a clinking sound, followed by the heavy mantle and the plates of armor. There’s no need for them anymore. Thorin straightens his shoulders, now free from the pressing weight, and makes his way across the hall, unfastening and throwing away his vambraces as he walks to the door.

Dwalin is there, leaning against the cracked pillar facing the entrance to the King’s Hall. He hasn’t gone anywhere. Not that Thorin believed he would. How he would like to tell him that he’s sorry, to explain, to apologize. But there’s no time for this. And no need for extra words either, a glance has always been enough for them. As it is now. Dwalin looks him up and down and smirks.

“Like in the old days?” He lays his hand on Thorin’s shoulder and the king repeats his gesture.  
“Like in the old days.”

Kíli steps forward.

“I will not hide when others fight our battles for us! It is not in my blood!”

His ardor, his stubbornness, his boldness – it all feels so familiar. Thorin comes closer and touches his forehead with his own. 

“No, it is not.”

Perhaps Fíli can resist the temptation, but Kíli cannot.

“Kíli, listen to me, in battle you will feel the wings growing behind your back.” Kíli looks up at him, his huge deer eyes wide with surprise, and Thorin smiles. “Fear not. And don’t look back.”

 _Fear not_ , Thorin shakes his head faintly. The pale bastard brings back his arm for the final blow, the blade meets the chainmail hidden underneath the clothes, and Fíli, who has resisted the call to the last moment, falls down. Enormous, gleaming golden wings spread with a plop, and Azog falls back in shock, staring at Fíli who is gliding down to the foot of the tower and lands besides his brother. 

_And now we’ll see who takes the upper hand._ Thorin tightens his grip on his sword and takes off.

***

Kíli swings his sword, but Fíli dodges the blow and, having shifted his blade from one hand to another, rushes forward. Not wanting to interfere with their sparring, Thorin steps into the doorway, looking at them with slight envy. It’s not easy to get used to the huge wings even when they are folded behind his back. They cannot be hidden under the clothes. They bother him, prevent him from sleeping on his back as it used to be his habit and make dressing a torture. Even their quiet bustling behind his back makes him startle sometimes. It’s so hard to believe they are a part of him now.

The sound of the steps resonates from the walls. Thorin turns his head to look at Dwalin coming down the hallway. The wings stick up behind his shoulders like the axes that he will never be able to carry anymore. He stands next to Thorin watching the boys spar and starts humming approvingly from time to time at a particularly successful blow.

They were lucky to have permanent wings only for the three of them after the battle.

“I still wonder how easy Balin took this,” says Thorin thoughtfully. “He mentioned once that he looks like a wise old owl now.”

“Overfed goose is more like it.” Dwalin gives a genial chuckle, and Thorin smiles at him, his wings fluttering slightly behind him.

“Sometimes I think of having the blasted things chopped off.”

“Screw you,” retorts Dwalin totally undisturbed. “They are yours to carry.” He slides his fingers under the plumage finding the sensitive spot where flight feathers are ah!.. attached, so that Thorin’s coal-black wings suddenly expand, beating the air nervously. Dwalin smiles widely and Thorin barely resists the urge to cover himself with the wings. He glares at Dwalin.

“Don’t you dare laugh, you bastard, or you’ll be picking up your teeth soon.” 

And yes, feathers too. Thorin smirks and shakes his head.

In the training grounds swords clash against each other, followed by friendly teasing. Thorin watches Fíli trying to play his favourite trick and Kíli blocking it easily.

After all it’s not an excessive price for winning. It could have been much worse. He will get used to it with time. And he will do all in his power so that those two never have to grow wings ever again.  



End file.
